


I'm Still Here

by theclockiscomplete



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Bondage, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 00:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13624986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclockiscomplete/pseuds/theclockiscomplete
Summary: The Doctor shows up at Torchwood after Clara's death, missing something only Jack can fix.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Written pre FtR and left to rot for two and a half years before I remembered I'd written it and actually liked where it was headed. Porn will be in chapter four, and chapter five will be a sufficient ending if you'd rather skip it.

In hindsight, Jack does not know what he’s expecting when he returns to his office with a cup of coffee in his hand. He does know, dimly, that it very likely did not include a crying old hobo in a hoodie. But here they are—he unwashed and still disheveled from the previous night, and the stranger on his also-disheveled couch with wild gray curls and what looks like battered pyjama pants hanging loose on his spare frame. Jack steels himself with an extra swallow of Ianto’s coffee, situates himself on the edge of his desk, and then as an afterthought proffers a spare box of tissues—Gwen’s idea to move them from the supply room after the last few encounters with Ianto. Bless. The man absentmindedly places the box next to him and it’s then that Jack realizes that even though the man’s face is wet and his eyes are red, he’s not actually releasing tears. Jack takes another swig of coffee to distract himself from wondering what it would be like to run his hands through that mane of spun silver. Focus. Find out what he wants and how he got here, chat him up, and offer the retcon whiskey/water/Tylenol/immunization when it’s over. 

He’s not too surprised when the man croaks “Jack.” If he’s here, having managed to bypass all of his security measures and his team  _ and _ knows the location of his office, knowing his name just makes sense. So it’s when he says “I lost her,” a heavy moment later that the alarm bells begin to go off in Jack’s head. He knows that weight, and he knows the only person besides him capable of transmitting such resignation and grief in so few words. The man’s head drops toward his chest. He’s trying for deep breaths and staring at his forearms braced on his knees. Hardly daring to hope, heart in his throat, Jack slides off the desk and approaches him slowly. Cautiously, tenderly, he takes a weathered, chafed wrist in each hand and kneels so that their heads are level. “Doc?” he whispers. Storm-blue eyes, red-rimmed and shiny, emerge from beneath a shockingly prominent set of eyebrows. Without pausing to think, Jack smooths one of them with a thumb. He frowns, concerned at the half-healed scrapes and bruises along the Doctor’s cheekbones and jaw, eyes following the long and slender hand drifting in his own to protect his midsection. “Doc…what happened?” 

The Doctor’s mouth works. He concentrates. “How do you do it?” he manages. Jack blinks, confused. The Doctor grips his elbow, desperation in the lines of his face. “How do you keep caring when they’re gone so fast?” Jack feels his heart lurch, crack. 

“Who was she?” he whispers. 

The Doctor seems to be staring straight through him. He swallows hard. All angles, this one, and that Adam’s apple is nearly a threat when it bobs. Jack begins to wonder if his friend is capable of response when he says, more clearly than anything so far, “Clara. My Clara,” and before Jack can begin to piece together what to say next, what to do, the Doctor’s long eyelashes flutter closed and he neatly loses consciousness. Jack braces his leg on the floor and holds his friend’s weight, his own eyes tearing up as he holds the Doctor close. Clara. She must have been a hell of a woman. Jack maneuvers the Doctor onto the couch and covers him with the navy blue coat that had been tossed on the floor the previous night. He probes gently through the wild tangle of curls, searching for any obvious and worrying head wounds; he only relaxes once it’s apparent that there are just the garden variety smattering of bruises and scratches. He’s not sure what’s going to happen now, he thinks, watching the Doctor’s eyelids flicker restlessly, but it will probably be messy and hard and heartbreaking. Still, as he flicks off the light and eases the door shut behind him, Jack can’t help but smile. His friend is home, here with him. 

 

 

They’re down in the hub tonight, because the couch is currently occupied by one grieving and wounded time lord, and Jack’s not leaving him for a minute, not even for the comfort of Ianto’s flat. Some spy movie is playing on the projector; Jack’s not really paying attention, and he’s willing to bet his lover isn’t either. One hand is busy with the popcorn and the other slides through Ianto’s hair, a gesture that comforts the both of them at the worst of times and often leaves the younger man loose-limbed and half-lidded with pleasure. Tonight’s not that kind of night. 

They’d already been through the questions and the concerns with the team. How could he be doubling back on his own timeline? (Because fuck the rules, that’s why.) Was he older or younger than their current acquaintance? (Older. Much.) Wasn’t being around Jack painful for him because he was an aberration in time? (Yes, but he’s already in too much pain to care.) 

“Are you going to leave with him?” Jack snaps out of his thoughts and his fingers pause their roaming through the soft territory behind Ianto’s ear. He realizes that this must have been bothering Ianto for hours and tugs his hair gently until they’re eye to eye. 

“Is that why you’re so tense?” he asks, but he already knows the answer. “Listen,” he says. “What I do here? It’s not just passing the time, bedding down and making the most of waiting for him.” Ianto’s eyes soften from trepidation to curiosity and something like hope. He’s so beautiful, and Jack’s mouth goes temporarily dry. “I love him,” he manages, “and I would do anything for him.” He hurries past the subtle change in Ianto’s expression. “But you’re my life. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.” He starts to say something else, but Ianto leans in suddenly and silences him with a warm and affectionate kiss. Jack closes his eyes, runs his hands up under Ianto’s t-shirt, marveling at the yield and muscle in tandem beneath his fingers. He never, ever gets tired of the sensations, of holding his lover flush against him, of hearing and feeling his breath rasp in Jack’s ear. And the thing Ianto does with his fingers—Jack’s completely certain he’ll never tire of that either. 

Much later, when they’re gasping and half-drunk on endorphins, Ianto snuggles his head deeper into the crook of Jack’s shoulder and says sleepily, “You’re still gonna try to fuck him aren’t you?”

Jack laughs out loud and kisses Ianto’s forehead. “Been trying too long to give up now.” He yelps when Ianto bites his nipple just hard enough to make his point, and they both fall asleep with small smiles.

 

 

Jack wakes up to the alarm. Not the phone kind, the building kind. Ianto is already scrambling to his feet, gun whipped from the top of the coffee table, eyes wild and features still blurry with sleep. Jack takes a moment to appreciate the view, and then stretches with a catlike yawn before pressing up behind his lover and easing his arm down. “I set it to go off when any kind of sonic device tries to bypass the lock,” he murmurs.

Ianto’s eyes scan the room. “The Doctor’s trying to leave.”

Jack nods and ruffles his hair before beginning to gather his clothes from off the floor. When he steps fully dressed into his office, it’s to find his friend scowling at him from the edge of his desk. Jack affects a mock-offended look, because the alternative is taking any of this seriously and as impressive as those eyebrows are, he knows this is just a distraction for the Doctor, too. “That’s my spot.” 

The Doctor chews a nail and looks somewhat disdainfully at an obviously discolored spot a bit to his right. “Really,” he says, and God this new accent does things to Jack’s knees. “Because I rather figured that was it.” 

Jack rummages through his liquor cabinet to hide the reaction his body is having to this new incarnation and eyes the Doctor as he paws through the selection of bottles. “You look like a vodka type,” he says cheekily, holding up the bubblegum schnapps—Owen’s idea of a joke that had gotten Tosh plastered in no time at all and may have resulted in the deletion of at least three dimensions on a distant planet. The Doctor raises and lowers a shoulder, looks away. Jack puts the bottle back, opts for the non-retcon whiskey. The one from his personal stock. He’s only got coffee mugs; he wipes the cleanest-looking one on the edge of his pants and fills it halfway before offering it to the Doctor. He sips, considers briefly, then throws it back like a pro. Not even a grimace. Jack blinks. “That’s new,” he says.

“It’s warm.” He sets the cup down and wriggles off the desk with none of the grace of Jack’s current Doctor—he greatly resembles a clumsy housecat that Meant to Do That, and Jack isn’t sure it’s all owed to the apparent damage to his side. “I should go,” says the Doctor, but Jack grabs him around the middle as he tries to limp past and there, just there, is the jumping off point of so many of Jack’s fantasies that he nearly slackens his grip. Nearly. 

“Bullshit,” Jack says, and he’s secretly impressed that his voice sounds as steady as it does with his mouth in such proximity to the Doctor’s ear. “Something happened to you, and I’m not certain that you aren’t still in shock.” It saddens him that the biggest indication that something is horribly wrong is that the Doctor is not shying away from Jack’s blistering touch. If anything, he’s leaning into him. “You’re staying here until you’re fit for travel,” Jack concludes and it’s with a great effort of will that he pushes the Doctor gently back into the room and releases him. He’s prepared for a fight, to physically restrain his friend. But the Doctor collapses on the couch and fists his hair with one hand, the other drifting protectively over his ribcage. 

“My TARDIS locks me out, and you lock me in,” he says. “It’s almost funny. Ha ha.”

Jack’s hand goes in for the plunge, nestles at the crown of the Doctor’s head. The silver is even softer than it looks. “Doc,” he says, and waits for the empty blue eyes to make their way to his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You look like hell.”

The Doctor waves him off. At least that’s normal. “I’m fine. Already healing. Time Lord biology and all that.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, you look better already.” There’s almost an emotion on the lined face when the Doctor looks up at him, but it’s gone as quickly as Jack spots it. He sighs. “You taking your clothes off or am I?” Now there’s a glare, and it looks very at home with the eyebrows. Jack grins.

“As far as innuendo, I will be the one taking off my clothes,” he says stiffly. “As far as physical capability…” he shrugs. Winces. “You get your wish.”

Jack kneels and works the zipper down with infinite care. He will not cry. Not here, not yet. “Never like this, Doc,” he whispers, and his resolve nearly breaks when only then does the Doctor relax under his touch.

The Doctor has been tortured; this much is obvious. Some of the cuts and burns are purposeful and others are from the surmised explosion—most of what covers his left side, most likely. The Doctor wasn’t lying—several of the cuts and scrapes have already begun to scab and there are no signs of infection, but Jack knows that even with a face that is finally trying to match his age, the Doctor heals faster than this. It’s while Jack is bandaging a burn on the Doctor’s thigh that his friend speaks again. Jack’s ear is almost flush against the spindly chest and the rumble sets his nerves on fire and reminds him that he is currently kneeling between the knees of the man he would do anything for. Or anything to, given the chance. He blinks, shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he says. “What did you say?” 

There is almost humor in the look the Doctor gives him, but his voice cracks when he repeats, “I brought her body back with me.” Jack sobers immediately, rallies his strength to look the Doctor in the eye and speak as clearly and as officially as possible.

“She will have a resting place here, with Earth’s other heroes.” He’s not sure the Doctor heard him at first, but there’s an almost imperceptible nod and Jack exhales slowly. A dark mark at the waistband of the Doctor’s boxers catches his attention. It’s a bruise, albeit lighter than several of the others he’s come across thus far. He brushes his thumb over it, feather-light. “Doctor, did they…?” 

A quick, birdlike shake of the head, and the Doctor’s hand is over his and keeping it at bay. “Not from an enemy,” he says quietly, and damn him Jack actually  _ blushes _ .

“You loved her,” he says quietly, and rubs a bit of the salve as gently as possible on a deeper mauve spot on the outside of the Doctor’s knee.

“Endlessly.” 


	2. Part 2

It’s Gwen who offers to bring Clara’s body back from the TARDIS, Gwen with her big eyes and bigger heart, and Jack can tell her sincerity is nearly enough to do the Doctor in right then and there as he manages a short, jerky nod before resuming his thousand-yard stare in the general vicinity of the window. The light and scene streaming through it is artificial, but it directly reflects the weather outside and today it is offensively sunny and bright. Jack surreptitiously nudges a plate of food towards the Doctor—real food, not take-out. Ianto made it, opting to help from the background rather than have many dealings with someone who means so much to the man who is his world. Jack understands, and quiet moments between the two of them are filled with mutual reassuring touches and whispers in ears. The Doctor glances down at the plate. Sticks a long finger in the mashed potatoes and licks it. Jack swallows hard. The Doctor glances up at him, all eyebrows and band-aids.

“Why’re you all the way over there?” Jack’s been leaning on the doorframe, having already finished his lunch. He’d seen Gwen out and then kind of…lingered.

“No reason,” he says, and peers closely at his friend. “I thought being around me was physically painful for you.” He pulls the chair out next to the Doctor and perches backwards in it, arms folded on the back and feet planted on either side of it. The Doctor’s gaze slides off of him and lands on his bandaged wrists. “Not that I’m complaining,” Jack adds, and he touches The Doctor’s knee. “Just…I feel like I should be concerned that you want me near you if it hurts.”

“You burn, Jack,” he says. “All humans do, and you are still very, very human.” Jack isn’t sure whether to be proud or vaguely insulted, but he takes that as a sign of improvement and nods. “Your species flare and fade, but you…you never fade. You’re always burning at the center of time, and I can feel the timelines affected by you. They’re warmer than the others. Being in close proximity to the source…” He shrugs, pops a pea into his mouth. 

“The whiskey,” Jack recalls. “You said it was warm.” The Doctor gives no notice that he’s heard. Jack thinks that right now, the Doctor looks strikingly like a lost man by a fire, counting his remaining unlit matches. “Does…touching help?” He does his best to keep the want out of his voice, truly. He knows that though the Doctor understands him better than anyone, there may not be space in that great head of his for him to be so sympathetic right now, and damned if he’s going to put himself first here.

The Doctor looks mildly curious as he touches his fingertips to the back of Jack’s hand. For a long moment, Jack doesn’t even breathe. Now he’s the one burning, the sensation localized to the points beneath the pads of the Doctor’s fingers; he’s the one who feels cold when the fingers curl back inward. “I’m sorry,” the Doctor says. “The heat is…wonderful, but this body has always been a little gun-shy about touch.” Wonderful. He’d said Jack’s heat was wonderful.

His mouth is well and truly dry now. He’s not entirely able to keep the hurt out of his voice, but the reaction to his compliment is just as obvious. “So that wasn’t a hickey on your hip?” The Doctor gives him the smallest of smiles. 

“She took it slow,” he whispers. “Usually.” Jack can almost see the memory playing behind those stormy eyes. Love and pain. Joy and loss. Tenderness, and then he’s blank again and the transformation makes his own eyes sting.

“Doc, listen to me.” His hands hover over the Doctor’s shoulder, itching to grip and ground him here, but he abstains. The Doctor cuts his gaze to Jack’s face but doesn’t turn his head. “I need you to understand that I’m here for you however you need me to be.” It occurs to him that the other Doctor, his current Doctor, would have probably cut him off with some kind of joke at this point; he’d have given a falsely cheery thanks and bounded away. The intensity in this face and the stretching silence prompts him to ramble. No, Jack. No, no—“I think I’m always going to be in love with you and I’m not capable of hiding it,” he stammers. Son of a bitch. “But I’m not trying—”

“Jack.” He gratefully halts mid-sentence. The Doctor’s eyes are kind, and the hand that hovers above his upper arm only hesitates for a second before settling. “I know,” he says simply. Jack’s heart skips a beat. Two beats. “I have never not known.” After a long moment, Jack swallows hard and nods. The Doctor stands and motions Jack to his feet as well. “I want you with me when Gwen brings her in.”  _ I want your support,  _ Jack hears, and he swipes a sleeve across his eyes and nods, straightening his back.

“Let’s go.”

 

 

When Gwen comes through the door, the Doctor’s hand closes tight around Jack’s wrist. He barely notices, eyes fixed on the shape of the small body beneath the sheet. Gwen guides the hover-stretcher with infinite care to the center of the room and when her eyes meet Jack’s, he knows they’re thinking the same thing: too many, too many. How many more? Gwen lays a hand on the Doctor’s forearm and he startles, looking down into her face with those big sad eyes. “That room was beautiful, Doctor,” she says, and her eyes are full of tears. 

“You could see it?”

“Of course.” 

The Doctor’s eyebrows raise. “Impressive. You must have extraordinary empathic circuits.”

“She does,” Jack says proudly. Gwen smiles. 

“It’s gotten me in trouble more than once,” she confides.

“Well there’s no point otherwise,” the Doctor says, and there’s the first hint of warmth in his voice that Jack has yet heard in this incarnation. His gaze falls to the stretcher.

“Do you want to see her?” Gwen asks softly.

The hand around Jack’s wrist tightens as the Doctor’s mouth works for a moment. “I said my goodbyes,” he manages. “I’ll never be ready.” He reaches out the hand not currently latched on to Jack and slips it under the sheet to grip Clara’s hand. He breathes deeply, and Jack realizes that the Doctor is holding fire in one hand and ice in the other. The Doctor lifts the small and slender hand to his lips and Jack spots the first tear escape and roll along the lines in his face. The hand holding Jack’s releases him to come and cover the top of Clara’s hand, as though he’s trying to share some of the heat he’s feeling with his companion. He turns the palm up and fingers a small white scar on the web between her thumb and forefinger, infinite tenderness softening his features. He drops a kiss onto the small line, bowing his head for a moment before returning her hand to its previous position. He sniffs and turns to Gwen. “Best to let her rest now,” he croaks, and cracks the barest parody of a smile. “She’s been running with me for so long.” 

Gwen’s flings her arms around the Doctor and presses her face into his chest. It doesn’t occur to Jack to call her off, to explain that this face doesn’t thrive off of touch in the same way as the familiar brown-eyed one they’re used to. He’s letting her hold him, and there’s an arm around her shoulders, and Jack isn’t going to burn him unless he asks for it. A few feet away, dry-eyed Ianto keys in the code to open the morgue. Jack crosses the short space to him and enfolds him in a fierce hug. He doesn’t have to say it—that he’ll be going through the same thing one day, with Ianto or Gwen on that board. The desperation with which Ianto holds him tells Jack that they are on the same page.


	3. Part 3

After two days, Jack is starting to wonder if the Doctor is going to regenerate from sheer depression. He’s wonders if coming to Torchwood is preventing him from moving on—maybe he should be out in the galaxy, having adventures to take his mind off of his grief. He doesn’t bring it up; it never works for him. Maybe that’s why he’s here, ultimately, because Jack is quite possibly the only person who understands. If that’s the case, why won’t he talk? Oh, he’s fixed the coffee maker and engineered a translation matrix for Myfanwy, (who has surprisingly little to say aside from “coffee” and “blood”) but he stays out of sight and is never in the same place for long.

“How long is he staying?” Ianto asks after a crack and a round of swearing from above. 

Jack steers him into his office and shuts the door, and Ianto’s shirt is halfway down his shoulders before he says “As long as he needs.” 

On day three, the smoke alarm goes off and Jack seeks him out amid the tangle of wires and machinery that popped up four hours ago and has taken up residence in his office. There’s smoke and lights and the room is so unbearably hot that there’s steam, but a quick glance shows no evidence of actual fire. Jack stands on his desk and whacks the detector once with an open hand. It’s hard to see the Doctor through the atmosphere but even so, Jack can make out that he is still wearing several layers  _ and _ his captain’s coat. Jack hops down from the desk and pushes aside a particularly dense knot of wires to peer into the kind of electric hovel, intrigued. “How ya doing, Doc?” A burst of steam makes him lurch backwards momentarily.

“Sorry, sorry,” the Doctor mutters, waving a hand and tightening a lever. “Just upgrading your security system.”

Jack frowns. “It’s fifty-third century.” He can just make out the look the Doctor is giving him and this, at least, is consistent with the other two faces. “Carry on,” he says with a smile. He turns to leave and catches his sleeve on—he turns to see the elbow of his shirt held between two gloved fingers. The Doctor isn’t even looking at him, and keeps tinkering with his other hand. His attention is raptly focused on the project before him. 

“Wasn’t warm until you came in.” 

Jack sighs. “Well what can I say?” The smile he gets in return is reserved but genuine. He squats and starts flicking switches, trying to find the ones that will relieve some of the steam and electricity. “I’ll stay, but you gotta turn this stuff down a bit. Did you even hear the fire alarm?” The Doctor licks a finger and lifts it in the air, the former action effectively rebooting Jack’s train of thought. 

“Huh,” he says. “I thought it was at least a few degrees warmer than that.”

“God you’re frustrating,” Jack chuckles, shaking his head. “And I mean that in every way.” He’s rewarded with a flash of a real grin, and Jack isn’t sure all of the heat he’s feeling is coming from the Doctor’s contraption. There’s a zap and a yelp, and Jack sucks the pad of his thumb in the aftermath of the electrocution.

“Sorry.” The Doctor has the good grace to look abashed, Jack notices. He motions Jack closer and points to a smoking switch, Jack wades through the mess and crouches beside his friend to look. “Someone spilled something on this socket here.” The Doctor gestures to a blackened piece of metal located squarely in the middle of an obvious puddle of coffee, long since dried. 

“Um,” Jack says cleverly. “Ianto must have…” he waves a hand.

“I like him,” the Doctor says quietly, his fingers wandering over the wires leading to the ruined piece of metal. “Gwen too.”

Jack cuffs him lightly on the shoulder. “Too bad. They stay with me.” He’s smiling, but the Doctor looks confused. “It was a joke,” Jack offers. “I didn’t think you were really going to take them with you.” 

The Doctor peels off his gloves and it’s just now that Jack spots the thin sheen of sweat on the Doctor’s cheekbones. “Could do though,” he muses. Jack blinks at him. “Take you three,” the Doctor elaborates. 

“Oh. No, Doc.” The eyebrows form a mask of incredulity. Jack puts out a hand in reassurance. “You have no idea how badly I want that,” he rushes. “But we are needed here. Since we lost Owen and Tosh…we gotta stay.” 

“Yeah,” the Doctor says wistfully. “Dumb idea.”

Jack opens his mouth to protest or comfort, but he’s giving Jack that “kidding-but-not-really” look and he shuts it again. The Doctor unexpectedly wiggles out of Jack’s coat and lays it on the couch behind him. “As much as Clara insisted that I not be alone after she’s gone,” his voice cracks but he doesn’t pause, “I just can’t right now. Not with anyone new.”

The Doctor looks like such a lost little boy that Jack’s hand is smoothing his silver hair before he thinks about it. “Sorry,” he says, and pulls his hand back into his lap. The Doctor blinks at him.

“Feels good,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Now Jack can feel his heart thudding against his ribs, which is a supremely odd sensation when he’s also trying to swallow it. He takes the Doctor’s face in a hand and turns it until they’re eye-to-eye. “Doctor,” he says quietly. “Why are you so afraid to let someone take care of you?”

The Doctor drops his gaze. Jack moves his hand so that he’s cradling the side of the Doctor’s face, thumb brushing a cheekbone. The Doctor shivers, and Jack feels him press lightly against his palm. “Clara took care of me,” he murmurs. “Until the end. I didn’t deserve her either.”

“Doctor, you—”

“It’s true,” he says. “I left you. I got in my stupid blue box and—” his limbs spasm once as Jack yanks him forward by the front of his hoodie and shuts him up with a kiss. And oh, yes, he tastes magnificent. Stars birth and explode behind his eyes and he closes them for a brief instant before pulling away, gasping for air. The Doctor touches his lips experimentally and looks at his fingertips as though confused.

“Sorry. Again,” Jack pants. He composes himself with a deep breath.

“You humans and your kisses.” There’s disbelief in his voice, a gentle chiding, and a definite flair that Jack can’t place. “What’s wrong with good old-fashioned words?”

Jack’s less-impressive eyebrows raise. “Says the telepath.” The Doctor tilts his head.

“Fair enough.” They sit in silence for a moment and there is something almost tangible in the space between them; if Jack were sitting with anyone else he’d call it sexual tension, but this is the Doctor and the feeling is different. More nuanced. More…”Jack.” 

He jumps. “Yeah?”

“I can’t stay here forever.” Jack blinks, not understanding. Of course he can’t. They both know that. He waits. “But I’m not ready to leave. I’m still so cold, Jack. Without a sense of time…” The Doctor turns and looks him full in the face. “I have a request. A selfish one.”

Jack isn’t sure why he begins to feel his heart pound suddenly. “What is it?”

 

*************************

 

He expects to wake up at any moment, achingly hard or with an inconvenient wet spot in the sheets. There is no possible way that he is here right now. No way in any universe that he and his idol are tangled on the floor, with these noises coming from not just him. 

There’s no time to be slow, but when Jack wrests the Doctor's hoodie up and over his head, his touches are butterfly-soft despite their urgency. He nips at the Doctor's jawline and works his way down his throat, and if he keeps making those gasping noises, Jack's not certain he'll last long enough to fulfill his friend's request. His request. Jack feels the jolt straight to his groin when he remembers why they are here, in this moment. Some hairbrained idea of the Doctor’s, which involves getting Jack’s heat inside him, some of his essence to kickstart the Doctor’s time sense and restore him his bearings. He doesn’t know if it will work, but he never dreamed he’d get the chance to try. His fingers, usually so adept at unbuttoning, unzipping, dematerialization, fumble over the relatively simple mechanics of the Doctor’s fly and he growls in frustration before he gets it right.

“Easy,” the Doctor gasps. “I like those.”

“Sorry not sorry,” Jack manages, and drags his tongue along the pale stripe of skin exposed between the Doctor’s t-shirt and his boxers, effectively halting whatever protest was coming next. Still, he works them off without harming them and tosses them in a heap towards the corner. Jack crawls back over him and leers. “Any turn-ons time lords have that we don’t?” The Doctor shakes his head, chest heaving. “Any things I would normally do to humans that I shouldn’t do to you?”

Another head shake. “Same base biological structure,” the Doctor says before his head disappears under the shirt. He lifts his arms to help. “And with less of a risk of hurting me,” he adds when the shirt joins the pants. Jack doesn’t answer, tangled as he is in his own shirt. “You’re really enjoying this,” the Doctor muses. Jack stares at him incredulously. Or he tries to, but he’s distracted by the vast expanse of untasted creamy skin expanding and contracting before him.

“Doc,” he manages. “What part of ‘always’ don’t you get?”

“You said you were in love with me,” the Doctor said. “Not that you were dying to have sex with me.” Jack sits up and runs a hand through his hair. Deep breath.

“Alright. One more time before I completely lose control here,” he says. The Doctor shifts to listen, and the friction nearly brings Jack toppling onto him. “Guh,” he manages, and then, “If you were under the impression that I do not want to have sex with you every time I lay eyes on you, you’re horribly mistaken.” He can feel the Doctor half-hard beneath him, responding to the intense minutes preceding this moment. “I love you,” he says, “ _ and _ I want to have sex with you. For some people, these ideas are exclusive. For me,” he grinds once against the Doctor’s cock, still separated from his by two minimal layers of fabric. He glories in the gasp it elicits, eyes the Doctor’s exposed pulse point hungrily. “For me the latter is a demonstration.”

“Not putting you out of much then, am I?” He’s white knuckling a leg of the desk next to him and Jack feels a banal pleasure knowing that he is responsible for this beautiful man slowly starting to come apart before him. Jack chuckles and sucks briefly at the hollow beneath that pale throat. 

“Not even a little.”


End file.
